


Refuge

by Shayheyred



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayheyred/pseuds/Shayheyred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a professional. These sorts of things don't bother you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refuge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kleenexwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/gifts).



> This is not a Christmas story, though it's set on Christmas Eve; you'll see why as you read. Angst aplenty, but I like to think there's a happy ending somewhere after the closing paragraph. Gen, but "slash-y." Read into it what you will.  
> My gratitude to my beta, przed.

_You're a professional. These sorts of things don't bother you. They shouldn't bother you. If they were to start bothering you, you wouldn't be able to do your job, to function as a top agent. You'd never be able to line up a target in your crosshairs and pull the trigger. You wouldn't be able to make the split second decision that would save one life and end another._

 _It's a good thing you're a professional. Those sorts of things don't bother you._

 _If only you could sleep._

* * *

"Have you seen Napoleon?"

The woman behind the Dispatch desk looked up, grinning. "Well, hello there, handsome. Where've you been all my life?" Behind her oversized glasses she batted her eyelashes playfully.

"Waiting for you, of course," Illya murmured, fulfilling his part of their usual give and take. "My partner, Betty—have you seen him?"

The plump woman cocked her head. "I thought the two of you traveled in lock step."

"Yes, well, apparently he's out of step. I can't seem to locate him."

Betty ran a hand through her short hair. "I haven’t seen either of you since last Monday. Didn’t we send you to Yugoslavia?"

"Yes, got back yesterday." Illya gazed down the gray corridor, a thoughtful look on his face. "Yesterday morning."

Betty put a hand over his. "Something wrong?"

"There were…complications." Illya shrugged and sighed. "It was nothing, really. Haven't seen Napoleon since we landed."

"Perhaps Mr. Waverly will know where Mr. Solo's got to. He knows _everything,_ Good luck finding him, kiddo."

"Thanks, Betty."

"Any time, hon." She winked at him and he pecked her on the cheek.

* * *

 _You should answer the phone._

 _You don't know when you stopped sleeping, but it can't have anything to do with what happened in Sarajevo. Certainly not; you're just overtired, and jetlagged. No wonder your exhausted body can't catch up to your hyperactive brain. You're just an organism after all, and sometimes the chemicals and electrical impulses of organisms misfire. You're a malfunctioning machine. A few days will see you right as rain. It's not like you're thinking about things that upset you. You're just tired. That's all._

 _Will that telephone never stop ringing?_

 _Maybe you should take a walk. Leave your communicator. That incessant beeping is giving you a headache._

* * *

Mr. Waverly, who knew everything, did not know the answer. Still, he didn't seem overly concerned.

"I'm sure Mr. Solo's just taking some time off. It was a difficult mission, per your report."

"Yes sir." As usual in the presence of Waverly, Illya felt marginally disconcerted. "It’s just that it’s been almost two days now, and—"

"When you do find, him, Mr. Kuryakin," said Waverly, tamping his pipe yet again, "please impress upon Mr. Solo that next time I expect both of my agents to attend debriefing. Especially when they fail to deliver their objective."

"Yes, sir. I'll be certain to tell him that." Waverly did not look up again. Dismissed, chastised, Illya departed, the metal doors whirring closed behind him.

* * *

 _Why put up Christmas decorations in a bar, for Chrissakes? That tinsel over the mirror doesn’t make this place look festive, just dingy and depressing. The sad sacks who come here don’t want to celebrate. They want to forget. They want to hide. It's called "The Hideaway," isn't it? Can't be clearer than that._

 _You don't need a drink or six. You're not hiding. You just need sleep, so why did you come here? Oh look – outside the greasy window it’s snowing. Maybe it’ll snow enough to cover the garbage in the streets, and the oil slicks and the grime that blankets the whole damn city. Snow’s good for covering up the dirt._

 _Why do you keep thinking about it? It was just another mission. All right, so the climate on Bjelasnica Mountain was unforgiving, the snow heavy enough to hide your target against the cliff face. Oh, that was excellent cover, all right—looked for all the world like just another rock, but then the snow stopped and your quarry made one ill-considered move and you could see the outline against the white, white snow. You turned your head and could see the Prime Minister’s limo winding up the road from the valley._

 _You saw the gun point at the limo. And then you saw the shooter turn. You did what you had to do._

 _You tell the bartender, make it a double this time._

* * *

Illya huddled down further into his trench coat, but the snow—no, it was more like sleet—slithered down his collar to melt against his skin. "Revolting American weather," he muttered darkly. "They don't even know how to do snow properly."

The storm was hardly blinding, but he'd come out without an umbrella (and he could hear that mocking voice in his ear, _Partner mine, how can you be so competent in the field, and so unprepared for daily life?_ ) which only served to make him walk a little faster, because the sooner he found Napoleon the sooner he'd be able to give him a sound thrashing. He turned a corner, and saw the neon blinking through the swirling precipitation. _Mike's Hideaway,_ it read, in green letters, the "Y" in the shape of a shamrock. In the window a dusty wreath made a half-hearted attempt to extend greetings of the season to passers-by.

He'd been here before; they both had. It was, after all, the closest tavern to Napoleon's place, and the bartender knew them in a casual way, and the whiskey wasn't watered down, and nobody bothered you. And if it lacked ambiance, (or character, or anything else that would make it memorable) it was the kind of place one would go to, well, hide away.

Of course, why Napoleon would want to hide, especially from _him_ , was as yet undetermined. Frankly, it was unbelievable. Certainly that last assignment had been problematic; the weather had been difficult, the climb arduous, the result only halfway successful. But they were used to difficulties. True, his partner had been uncharacteristically silent on the way home. But surely he wasn't brooding—no, that was _his_ specialty, not Napoleon's. Illya snorted in amusement at the very thought.

Still…

Ah, well, _nichto ne riskovalo, nichto poluchennoye_. It was cold and miserable out, and he was tired of calling Napoleon on his phone and then his communicator and getting no answer either way and then banging on his door and finally picking the lock only to find the place empty. Might as well go inside.

* * *

 _Why did you come here?_

 _It smells familiar. You take a deep breath, and then another, and you remember being a child, Nonna, the sting of winter storms and the warmth of candles, (you remember the fireplace in that inn in Sarajevo with the firelight making you both look like creatures from Hell), how you loved Nonna's wide lap as she held you tight, (but you had to leave, you had to leave the warmth of the fireplace to get on with your mission, and he grumbled, as always) you liked the pungent spice of incense and candles and (you liked the way he grinned at you before he took up his position on your right flank), you liked the way you felt protected by her (by him). When you tilt your head back you see angels and blue sky and improbable stars against it, the closest you'll ever get to heaven. You breathe in the wax, fire, incense, while someone far away drones in Latin. It's a lulling sensation, and maybe it's just the drinks, but you feel more numb than warm, and maybe that means you should go home and sleep it off, but, oh, right, you're not sleeping, because when you start to fall asleep you—_

"Excuse me—"

 _The place has filled up since you arrived, so you yield your seat to a woman who can't possibly be warm in her thin camel coat and wet heels. But she nods at you and smiles. Women always smile at you, even if they don’t mean it._

 _You move to the back, hovering in the shadows. Not a full house, but a good turnout, more people than you expected to find, far more than you wanted tonight. You came here to be alone, but so much for being solo—hah, cue the rim shot. Next to you is a booth; you could go in there. You remember those, don't you, from when you dutifully, regularly poured out your innocent crimes to a faceless voice—yeah, you were a kid. Not much to tell then._

 _Maybe you should go in._

 _Stop it. You did your job, like a thousand other jobs, no different, not one bit. You're just feeling—_

 _You're just feeling. Stop it._

* * *

"Nah," said the bartender, not even looking at the picture in Illya’s hand. He swiped at the wet bar with his rag. "What can I get you?"

"Nothing." Illya watched a pugnacious look crawl across the bartender's face. "Very well. Vodka, neat." He waited until the glass was sliding across the bar towards him and the bartender was reaching for the cash before grabbing the man by his beefy wrist and twisting it sharply. "Think again," Illya murmured, shoving the snapshot of himself and Napoleon under the man’s nose. "You know my friend. He drinks Bushmill's Black Bush when he’s here."

"Dammit, that hurts!"

"It’s meant to. Have you seen him or not?"

"Yeah, yeah, he was here earlier, sat right there."

"Until?"

The man grimaced. "Stayed a couple hours. Left a half hour ago."

"Was he drunk?"

"Him? Never showed it if he was. Let me go, willya?"

Illya released his grip. "Don’t suppose he said where he was going?"

"Listen, buddy." The bartender rubbed his wrist. "This ain’t a movie. Even drunks don’t tell bartenders all their secrets. Anyway, it’s Christmas Eve—prob’ly he went home to his wife. Or girlfriend. Whoever the hell he’s fucking." He grabbed the ten dollar bill from the bar, not offering change. "Now get out. Don't come back."

Illya knocked back the vodka and buttoned his coat, taking his time. "Thank you," he said, hand on the doorknob. "And Merry Christmas to you, too."

* * *

 _Too bad your misfiring brain won’t comply. You’re on the street again, your head wet with snow, your Italian shoes sodden, but you’re not seeking shelter because you’re fucked, and there is no shelter from this._

 _Get a grip. These sorts of things don't bother you. If they were to start bothering you, you wouldn't be able to do your job, to function as a top agent. You'd never be able to line up a target in your crosshairs and pull the trigger._

 _If you weren’t a professional, you wouldn't have been able to do that job. You wouldn’t have been able to deal with the fact that your target, who took out at least seven NATO officials in the span of four months, a Montenegrin assassin known in the trade as The Stinger, was a nineteen-year old girl named Radana Delchev, who had freckles on her nose and black hair tied up in two thick braids. You wouldn't have been able to pull the trigger when you looked through your telescopic sight and saw those dark braids, those freckles. You couldn’t have made the split second decision that changed your mission from retrieval to extreme prejudice. You're a professional._

* * *

Though he had no faith, at least not in the idea of a supreme being, churches didn't bother him. He'd been in dozens, and they were entrenched in his experience more as places to hide or to ambush the adversary than as places of sanctity. There was no need, however, to upset those who believed, many of whom had turned out this evening apparently for a midnight Mass. As far as Illya could tell, there were no adversaries to dispatch this evening.

He'd forgotten it was Christmas Eve until the bartender mentioned it. But what had he been thinking? Napoleon may have been raised a Catholic, but he wasn't religious. St. Monica's Roman Catholic church was close to his apartment, but Christmas eve or no, he wasn't likely to come here, no matter what was going on with him—

 _What's going on with you, Napoleon?_

Illya felt a wave of unease.

He walked the length of the nave along the side aisle, looking into faces. The church was small, but it was filled. (And he could hear the voice in his ear _Of course it's full, it's Christmas eve, you godless Commie_ , followed by Napoleon's low rumble of a laugh, and no doubt he'd reply _This commercialized farce perpetrated in the name of a most-likely apocryphal personage is both offensive and deeply ludicrous to any intelligent human being_ , at which his partner would simply collapse in laughter). The congregation was a mix of ages, a blend of ethnicities, but most with the Mediterranean features that bespoke Italian roots. Napoleon would fit in here, the handsomest man in the place, no doubt sitting next to the best looking woman he could find, suavely chatting her up, singing carols in a robust if not always tuneful baritone, offering an embrace, not a handshake, as the sign of peace.

Illya scowled. He returned to the rear of the nave, passing the confessionals, and then up the other far aisle, but unless his powers of observation had deserted him, Napoleon was not present. Still, he'd thought, maybe, after the complications in Sarajevo—

No. It had been an idiotic idea in the first place.

* * *

 _The Prime Minister’s limo is winding its way up the road from the valley._

 _Draw her fire; at worst wing her so you can retrieve her, per your orders. She has a lot to tell UNCLE, and Waverly wants her alive. That’s what you’re going to do, it's just a job, like a thousand others—_

 _She's turning now, away from the limo, because she hears something, there on your right flank, and the gun, her assassin’s gun, has a new target, and there is no choice, you have to fire, you can’t try to disable, you have to shoot to kill, and she’s got the face of a schoolgirl, with freckles—_

 _Christ._

 _The storm is worse, and you grope your way blindly through the snow, (the snow is so white and her braids so black as she jolts backwards, a look of surprise on her young face) the buildings all a faceless gray (bright red splatters against the white snow). There's a doorway on the right that you remember, and maybe you can shelter there (and there, on your right flank, he's looking puzzled and startled as he stands up and puts his hands out in a gesture of confusion, and he's angry because you've fucked it up) because it's the only place for you, you know that now. You feel, you feel so—_

 _  
Go in, go in. It's the only refuge you can think of, the only one you need._

* * *

He was wet and cold, and far beyond exhaustion. His frustration and worry had hit their peak somewhere between the church and his partner's apartment, where his last hope had been replaced by dull resignation upon finding it as empty as before.

Illya let himself into the vestibule of his own apartment building and trudged up the stairs slowly, leaving slushy footprints on the threadbare carpet. In the dim yellow light from above the corridors were a patchwork of fading wallpaper and oddly-shaped shadows. As his eyes came up to the level of his floor, he perceived another shadow at the end of the hall, but this one was new, and unfamiliar. Pulse quickening, he drew his weapon in silence and rounded the final curve of stairway.

The cause of the shadow came into view, huddled against the door to his flat. "Napoleon!"

"Hello," Napoleon said, his voice roughened by the weather. "Sorry to drop in unannounced." He started to shrug in a self-deprecating manner, but gave up as if the effort were too great. "I tried to pick your lock, but I think my hands are frozen."

"Do you know I've been looking for you for hours?" Illya said gruffly, holstering his gun. "Where have you…" He trailed off as he approached, his relief tempered by alarm at Napoleon's appearance. His partner was soaked to the skin, his expensive shoes ruined, his face and hands nearly blue. "Napoleon…did you walk here? From your neighborhood? That's over three miles – in this weather. We do have subways, you know."

"I'm sorry."

"Apologize to your haberdasher. Seriously, Napoleon. Why were you out on a night like this?"

"I just, I needed…"

"Needed what?"

"Illya," Napoleon said, looking up at him, absolutely wretched. "I had to do it, do you understand?"

"Not really." Illya unlocked his door and pushed it open. A gust of warm air blew into the corridor. "Napoleon, why don't you come in and—"

"She was going to do it."

"She?" He leaned over Napoleon, who still crouched by the wall. "Whoever she is, we can talk about her inside."

Napoleon's hand shot out, crushing Illya's lapel. His eyes were bright, perhaps feverish. "She was about to pull the trigger. Do you understand? Do you?"

"Ah." _So it was that after all._ Gently he removed Napoleon's hand from his coat and squatted down beside him. "The mission. Yes, I understand. You shot her, and she was young and attractive, just a child really, and you feel terrible about it. But she wasn't a child, Napoleon. When they're raised like that, by the state, taught to be assassins, they are no longer children. It was a tragedy, but don't torture yourself, my friend. It was a pipe dream to think we'd get her back alive. She was about to assassinate another world leader, and you stopped her. So forgive yourself. Otherwise you'll go mad."

"Never mind," said Napoleon softly. He ran a hand over his face, pushing wet hair out of his eyes. "It doesn't matter."

"Napoleon." Illya gripped his partner's sodden arm tightly and pulled him upright. "Come. Have a drink with me, and let's be grateful we've saved the world again."

 _The world?_

"All right."

 _You see her in that split second, the second that divides "bring her in alive" and "shoot to kill," and she has the face of a schoolgirl and she's only nineteen and perhaps she can be saved and you watch that freckled face set into determination and her eye squint closed as the other peers into the gun sight, and Illya's on your right flank in her crosshairs and she's going to kill him, and there's no decision to be made._

 _So you do it._

 _You shoot. To kill._

 _And_

 _You're_ glad.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to the memory of Betty - aka Bluster, as those of you who knew her will understand


End file.
